Escape
by Teacup Poney
Summary: The day Sherlock Holmes decided he'd had enough—sorry, dear Watson. (Rated T for suicide attempt)


**Author's note** : I started writing this years ago, and had a weird impulse to finish it yesterday. Feel free to message me about any mistakes or typos you could find, I'm always happy to learn (I'm French, and also very self-conscious about my English)! I'm not sure about the characterization but I really needed a Watson-stopping-Holmes-from-committing-suicide story, so here you go.

I don't own Sherlock Holmes by the way, nor John Watson, or anything by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Guy Ritchie. Thank you, Internet (:

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was running.

Definitely not for his life, no. He was running because, according to his calculations, he had less than four minutes before Watson noticed that a full bottle of morphine was missing from his medical bag.

Stealing it had been ridiculously easy, but Watson always checked the contents of the bag before visiting his patients, and this old engraved reflex was interfering with Holmes' plans in a rather annoying manner. Nevertheless, this was his only window of opportunity, and he was bloody well going to make the best of it.

He glanced at the sky. The clouds that had hovered over London all day were threatening to break any moment, and a refreshing breeze caressed his face all of a sudden. Pleasant indeed—but that was certainly not going to make him change his mind.

Three minutes.

He needed to find a good hiding place really soon.

Why could he not simply wait until the doctor was gone and do it serenely at home, one may ask? Because he did not want Watson to find him, of course; he nearly rolled his eyes at the thought that anyone may actually ask. Other people were rather dim.

Well, Watson would _know_ soon or later anyway, but he refused to let him be the one to find him. Most of all, he refused to leave him with the possibility to think he could have saved him. He was not the selfish bastard Watson had once called him (and was probably going to call him again when Holmes succeeded).

Decency probably recommended that he left a note, but what could he possibly write in it?

_"Dear Watson,_

_If convenient, try not to miss me too much. If inconvenient, try all the same because you are in no position to argue as this is your entire fault."_

No, that definitely would not do. Leaving notes was overrated anyway, he decided.

Baker Street was far behind now, and he still had not found an acceptable place to do it.

Two minutes.

Just as he felt the first few drops pour down his face, he saw it: a filthy-looking and apparently disaffected shed. That would do. He looked just once behind his shoulder and forced the door open with one foot; he was in such a state of tension that the loud cracking noise made his heart jolt in his ribcage, and it was still pounding furiously when he crossed the threshold and closed the door behind him.

He mulled very briefly upon the fact that every beat he felt was drawing him closer to the very last one. Of course, this statement could have applied to every day of his dull existence, but at this precise moment, it was dangerously accurate_. Stop poetizing and do it_, he mentally scolded himself.

Right. He produced the stolen bottle from his interior pocket, along with three syringes, and settled himself on the floor. He had to fill the three of them right away, just in case he got too weak too quickly—he had this one chance and he was not going to ruin it.

Three doses would be more than enough, he mused as he filled the last one, eager despite him.

He was oblivious to any silly thoughts about the value of life now, as he rolled up his sleeve and garroted his arm. Soon, he spotted one blue vein standing out, which would be perfectly adequate. He inserted the needle, carefully, and took a deep breath.

Before injecting the morphine, he thought one last time of Watson. His Watson. He did not need to concentrate very hard for his image to spring to mind, vivid and beautiful, the result of hours of surreptitious staring. If his assumptions were correct, Watson was just beginning to gather his tools by now, and then he—

BANG.

As the door flung open, the real Watson appeared, significantly more furious than in Holmes' present recollection. Holmes blinked. _Damn the man,_ he was fast for a cripple. Maybe he could inject at least the current dose before Watson was on him? Maybe it would be enough after all?

And maybe he was slowed down by the prospect of dying: before he could do anything, Watson had kneeled before him, seized the syringe and pulled it—not so gently—out of his arm.

"For God's sake Holmes, can't you see this is far too much? What were you trying to do, off yourself for good?"

As Holmes did not answer, Watson let out a disapproving sigh, deftly removed the tourniquet, pocketed his retrieved bottle and opened his mouth, probably ready to lecture him on the importance of dosing, when his gaze stopped on the other two syringes.

Holmes could actually _see_ realization dawn upon Watson's face, his stomach plummeted, and he felt insanely empty as he prepared for the upcoming assault.

However, before he knew what was happening to him, he was pulled into a bone-crushing hug and he was lost in the scent of fresh soap and tobacco. Under other circumstances he would have secretly revelled in the embrace, but right now he just wanted to be left alone, lay down and disappear into the ground. How could he have been so stupid? Why had he not planned his final escape more thoroughly? He struggled to wriggle out of the hug but Watson was stronger than he was, as he had always been.

Watson finally let go of Holmes and pulled him to his feet, wordlessly. When he finally spoke again, his voice was barely a murmur. "What were you about to do, Holmes?"

"Do you really need an answer, old chap?"

To his great shame, Holmes felt the last word catch in his throat.

His plan had seemed so easy, so perfect just a few moments earlier, but now he could see the pain in Watson's eyes—which was just a taste of the pain he would have inflicted him and left him to deal with, alone—it felt all too real. All at once, the weight of what he had set to do dropped on him and it was too much to bear. His knees buckled and Watson gently caught his shoulders to steady him. Holmes could feel his stare on him.

When he finally dared hold Watson's gaze, stormy blue, still full of shock, of sadness and something else he could not define, the words tumbled, hurried, unprepared:

"I only wish that you could love me too."

No, he had not just said those words. It could not be. And yet here they were still ringing, just like a string struck by mistake on his violin, painfully reminding him of his error as long as it rang.

Watson's eyes widened, ever so slightly, and Holmes completely stopped breathing. His hands were still on his shoulders, supporting him; he could almost feel his own skin humming at the touch. Somewhere, in a remote part of his brain, he knew he had to brace himself for the inevitable rejection, but he could not tear himself from the doctor's gaze.

And suddenly, before his mind could register how close he was inching to him, Watson's lips were on his.

John Watson was kissing him.

His head spinning, Holmes kissed back, softly, tentatively, his heart almost bursting. Here, in this shabby rotten shed, for a few sacred seconds, nothing mattered anymore, except that kiss.

Too soon, Watson pulled away, and Holmes finally opened heavy eyelids he did not even remember closing. Shuddering, he drew a deep breath and waited for the other man to speak.

"Is that the reason why?", Watson asked, carefully.

"Yes", he whispered. Why lie anymore?

"And you didn't think, in your grandeur and genius, to talk to me before dealing with it your own way?" There was a sad edge to his voice, and something else Holmes again could not quite place.

Holmes considered him, trying to summon his deduction skills which had so cruelly failed him those past few hours. Just _think_. Watson was staring at him with a straight face, which could be an ominous sign; however, his hands were still on his shoulders, fingers softly digging into the fabric of his shirt. That definitely did not indicate rejection. His pupils were dilated but the shed was quite dark, so that could not be considered relevant. Had he not been bloody shivering, he could have felt the man's pulse, and then estimate, on a scale of one to ten, a level of—

"Stop that, Holmes."

"Stop what?", he replied, startled.

"Your blasted mind tricks."

"I'm not—"

His next words died in his throat as Watson pulled him closer, their lips crashing into a second kiss, passionate this time. Holmes found himself clutching at Watson for dear life. The fact that he had just almost died hung in the air between them, heavy, tinting their embrace with a kind of urgency, of desperation.

When they finally parted, both gasping for air, Holmes cupped the doctor's face, reverently, and clumsily brought their foreheads together, relishing the contact.

"Of course I love you, you selfish bastard", Watson breathed.

He loved him.

Watson loved him.

No morphine-induced rush could ever transcend how he felt then. He was floating, losing himself in the feeling of Watson, his dear Watson wrapped around him, his warmth, his smell, their noses slightly touching—and suddenly he found himself smiling, for what felt like the first time in years. He could see his goofy grin mirrored on the other man's face.

His cheeks hurt from smiling; there was no place for deduction at that point, everything was so blatantly clear for once, and yet his brain found a way to start running again.

He had to know.

So, he simply asked: "What about Mary?"

Quite inappropriately, he could not stop grinning.

"Let me care about Mary, will you?"

Watson's tone was tender but still did not leave room for negotiation.

Once again, all the implications threatened to engulf Holmes' mind; there would be collateral damage; people would get hurt. They would have to hide, too; not to mention there was no turning back. And this was just the start of it.

All of these were problems begging to be solved, screaming for attention, and yet Holmes forcefully silenced them. Just this once. This was their moment.

It was just them, their embrace, and the sound of the pouring rain.

And it was perfect, he thought as he landed another kiss on Watson's lips, unable to contain himself any longer, circling his arms around him as if to capture this moment forevermore, as if his life depended on it. It did, in a way.


End file.
